The Atrocity of Sunsets
by TheHufflepunk
Summary: The mind is an amazing thing, for many reasons- not the least of which being its astounding defence mechanisms. Sometimes, one's mind can defend oneself from facing horrors you never knew existed. Harry experiences this first-hand. Response to a challe
1. Part I

**Disclaimer: **By no means do I own or have any claim whatsoever to Harry Potter and his world. I'm just extending my over-active imagination into Jo's amazing creation.

**Author's Notes:**

This fic is my attempt to respond to a challenge set forth by EmySabath. I took this challenge because psychology has always fascinated me, and this gives me a chance to explore it—even if I think anything similar to this plot has a snowball's chance in hell of occurring in canon.  
Readers should note that the concept of time is pretty hazy and undefined in this first chapter, but it will be easier to follow after Part I.  
(Also… the poem is not mandatory, but everyone should give it a chance… it sets the tone, plus Sylvia Plath is amazing.)

* * *

_**Elm**_

_I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:  
__It is what you fear.  
__I do not fear it: I have been there._

_Is it the sea you hear in me,  
__Its dissatisfactions?  
__Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?_

_Love is a shadow.  
__How you lie and cry after it.  
__Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse._

_All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,  
__Till your head is stone, your pillow a little turf,  
__Echoing, echoing._

_Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?  
__This is rain now, this big hush.  
__And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic._

_I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.  
__Scorched to the root  
__My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires._

_Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.  
__A wind of such violence  
__Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek._

_The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me  
__Cruelly, being barren.  
__Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her._

_I let her go. I let her go  
__Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.  
__How your bad dreams possess and endow me._

_I am inhibited by a cry.  
__Nightly it flaps out  
__Looking, with its hooks, for something to love._

_I am terrified by this dark thing  
__That sleeps in me;  
__All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity._

_Clouds pass and disperse.  
__Are those faces of love, those pale irretrievables?  
__Is it for such I agitate my heart?_

_I am incapable of more knowledge.  
__What is this, this face  
__So murderous in its strangle of branches?---_

_Its snaky acids kiss.  
__It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults  
__That kill, that kill, that kill._

_**-Sylvia Plath**_

The Atrocity of Sunsets

**Part I**

Harry was aware that he was currently sitting in the living room of Number 4, Privet Drive, across from Professor Dumbledore and next to Lupin. The Headmaster was speaking.

"—so, we are taking you back to Headquarters in order to begin your extra tutelage straight away."

The last thing Harry remembered, before this moment, was walking away from the train station with the Dursleys. He needed to reorient himself—just as he always did after a blackout—and he need to figure out why he would need 'extra tutelage' in the first place.

He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder gently, and looked over at Lupin.

"Harry," he said softly, "I know it will be hard to go back to Grimmauld Place so soon after—after what happened to Sirius, but you need to do this."

Sirius. The veil. Padfoot…gone. But there was a voice in his head saying, '_No, Padfoot isn't gone… I'm right here.'_

"I'll be fine," Harry said quietly.

"You're sure?" asked Lupin.

Harry nodded.

* * *

Snape sat impatiently in one of the parlors of Grimmauld Place, waiting for Potter to show up so they could begin this farce of a lesson. If the boy was late, he would be sorry. Contrary to popular belief, the potions professor had much better things to do in the summer than tutoring incompetents in occlumency. In fact, the only reason Snape was doing this at all was that Dumbledore had ordered him to, in his capacity as leader of the Order of the Phoenix.

'Potter needs to be trained to protect himself,' Snape thought bitterly, 'and that, of course, means he receives dispensation to do under-age magic outside of school so he can learn garden-variety skills from aurors and Order members…'

Yes, not only was Snape conscripted to attempt to teach Potter occlumency again, but the boy was also being taught 'specialized transfiguration' by Albus, the animagus transformation by McGonagall, dueling techniques by the werewolf, and various other skills he probably wouldn't apply himself to.

'They're all taken in by his celebrity and his false sincerity, and I am the only one who sees him for what he is,' he mused.

After waiting for about a minute more, the door opened slowly and Potter tentatively made his way inside the room.

"Shut the door," instructed Snape. The boy did so.

"You cut it very close just now," he continued sharply, "and I will tell you now that I will not allow tardiness to these lessons—whether you're mourning the mutt or not."

The Professor expected the boy to lash out at that remark, but all that happened was that a blank look passed over Potter's face before he simply replied, "Yes, sir."

"Have you practiced shielding your mind at all since you violated my privacy last term?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, then," he sneered, "Let's see if you managed to retain _anything_ from our previous lessons.

"_Legilimens!"

* * *

_

The boy looked proudly upon his latest work as he set down his brush. Though it was slightly darker than most of his other pieces—a result of the gloom-and-doom atmosphere of the house, he was sure—it felt good to do something productive. The fact was that everyone had been so busy in the three weeks since Harry had come to Grimmauld Place (especially Potter and the resident Slytherin) that this was the first chance he'd had to be by himself for any significant period of time, and he'd jumped at the opportunity to use his creative impulses. Painting was always such reprieve.

However, he knew that very soon he would be needed to help out with the others, and he would be called to do more important things than simply painting. So, after quickly signing the canvas, the boy cleared away his paints and supplies and stashed them—along with the painting itself—where nobody could stumble upon them accidentally. When this task was completed, he glanced at his watch: it was ten minutes until two. There was to be another lesson with McGonagall on the animagus transformation at two o' clock.

"These lessons have been going very well," the boy murmured, "Harry can handle them on his own for now."

* * *

Though he couldn't recall walking to where he was now, Harry saw that he was standing before the doors to the Black Library. He quickly checked his watch and saw that it was just about two—he was exactly on time for his animagus lesson.

It was always disconcerting to wake up from a blackout, but Harry wasn't overly concerned with their frequency—they usually occurred year-round, but were always more frequent during the summer. Pushing his musings aside, Harry quietly entered the library and approached the table where the Transfiguration Professor was waiting.

"Hello, Professor McGonagall," he greeted her.

"Hello, Harry," she returned, giving him a small smile. "As you have so far shown a most sufficient understanding of the basic theory and mechanics of the transformation, I'm planning on soon starting you on the actual process of becoming an animagus. However, before we begin that endeavor, I'd like to go more slightly more in depth in explaining how a wizard gains his particular form as an animagus."

Harry nodded to show he understood.

"I am sure that you have realized this already, from your studies and experiences with animagi, but one cannot choose his own animagus form. The form that one receives reflex his or her personality- demeanor, interests, and many other components that contribute to one's personality all have an effect on the outcome of the form. It is for this reason that it is only one animagus form per wizard is possible—not, as some scholars hypothesized, because it is impossible to expend the magical energy for multiple forms. A wizard or witch has one personality, and so can only have one form. Do you have any questions?"

McGonagall smiled when Harry indicated that he had no need for clarification.

"Very well," she said, "now, we can begin the process of determining your animagus form. This is only the first step on the way to a successful transformation, but it is also very complex.

"To start off, I will be instructing you in how to reach the meditative state required to access your center, where you will eventually identify the animal that will be your form…"

* * *

She didn't like being holed in Grimmauld Place—not that anyone did, really. Left here for too long, anyone would start to go stir-crazy; the house was much too gloomy, too musty and suffocating, to be pleasant for anyone. However, she knew that it was necessary to her safety to stay in Headquarters, and so she didn't complain… most of the time.

It was only that everyone else had things to do to keep them distracted from dwelling too much on wanting to be anywhere but this dismal house. It might be raiding the Black Library, or painting, or (like Potter), training almost endlessly. In fact, Potter had just returned from a training session with Shacklebolt, working on Auror-grade defensive spells and shields. Everyone had things they could do to distract themselves but her.

The primary reason for this was, of course, that she wasn't allowed to even step out of Number 12. As she mostly found her refuge in gardening and looking after plants, not being allowed out-of-doors was a fairly major hindrance to her means of distraction. All she wanted was a nice, small garden to tend to. It didn't even have to be for long—maybe thirty minutes a week—she wasn't greedy.

But, as it was, she and all her companions had been at Order Headquarters for almost two months now, and she had not yet been able to find even _five minutes_ for her reprieve. She just wanted to spend time in her garden again.

* * *

The dark and dour Potions Master approached the gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's office. After speaking the inane password—_Everlasting Gob-stoppers_—Snape ascended the winding staircase and came to the door. He was about to push it open, so he could get the appointment he had with Dumbledore over and done with, but he hesitated when he heard voices speaking inside.

"—wondering, Albus, if you've noticed anything odd about Harry in the lessons you've had with him?"

There was a brief silence, and Snape assumed that Dumbledore was contemplatively sucking on a lemon drop whilst formulating an answer to the Deputy Headmistress's question.

"I have noticed nothing strange when I have seen him. He has been picking up concepts and spells very quickly, but that is not unexpected when coupled with his added determination, as a consequence of what happened at the Ministry.

"Why do you ask, Minerva?"

Snape heard McGonagall sigh and then begin to speak.

"You know that Harry has been progressing quickly in the process of becoming an animagus. In our lesson, he reached the point where he was able to determine his form."

"Go on," the Headmaster prompted after a moment of silence.

"It's just so unexpected," she explained. Snape had never heard the strict transfiguration professor sound so flustered. His interest was piqued.

"What was his form, Minerva? Was it—"

"A snake?" she interrupted him, "No. No, nothing alarming like that. He's… well, his form was a chameleon."

The Potion's Master's eyebrows went up. This _was_ unexpected. Potter was the quintessential Gryffindor; Snape had been expecting him to be something loud and flashy—a lion, a wolf—but to be a chameleon?

"Hmm…that is a surprise," said Dumbledore mildly. "Well, Harry has always been averse to his fame and the attention that he gets, perhaps his form is simply an expression of his desire to blend in and be like his peers."

Deciding that he had heard enough, Snape knocked on the door to Dumbledore's office, as if to announce that he had just arrived.

"Come in," called the Headmaster. "Ah, Severus, here for our meeting, yes?"

Snape nodded stiffly.

McGonagall stood from the chair she had been sitting in, and bid Albus a good day.

"Minerva," said Dumbledore, "I will keep in mind what you said, and keep my eye out for anything odd."

"Thank you, Albus," she said, and then nodded at Severus as she left the office.

"Come, sit down, Severus," said Dumbledore, once the door was once again closed.

Snape was about to launch into the information he had gathered at the last Death Eater meeting, when the Headmaster once again spoke.

"I trust that you will be discreet about Harry's animagus form, and will also be on the lookout in regards to any strange behavior in the future?" Dumbledore was looking at Severus very seriously, employing the expression which made many people feel as if he was looking through them.

Though he was a bit irritated at being found out by Albus, Snape agreed.

"Now, on to business. Were you able to garner any information in the last meeting...?"

* * *

Harry's birthday came and went—celebrated with the Weasleys, Remus, and other sundry members of the Order—and the last of the summer continued on, much the same as it was before. He made further progress in the animagus transformation, and continued going to all of his other lessons. He continued experiencing black-outs. Sometimes, he would see McGonagall send concerned, confused looks his way, and he would note that Snape seemed to be glaring at him with a bit more confusion mixed with his sneer than general, but overall, the days passed in an unremarkable way.

Finally, it was the last day of summer, and he was sitting in his room with his trunk packed—Mrs. Weasley had picked up his needed supplies, once again, a week beforehand—and was speaking with Professor Dumbledore.

"You have done remarkably well this summer, Harry," said Dumbledore, "And I cannot say how proud I am of you."

"Thank you, sir."

"Not at all, my dear boy," the Headmaster replied, smiling at him. "Now, you will be resuming some extra lessons at Hogwarts, but they will not begin until the second week, to allow you to settle into classes once more, and even then they will not be at the intensity that they were this summer. We want you to be prepared, but we also want you to be able to concentrate on classes and have some time to yourself, as well."

Dumbledore waited for Harry to say something, but it appeared as if he wasn't going to. He tried to push down the worry he was feeling for the boy—the worry which had been slowly growing since that meeting with McGonagall. He was just about to speak again when he saw Harry's expression become a bit happier, and slightly hopeful, leaving behind the unsettling almost blank look that had been on his face previously.

"So," said Harry, "I'll still be able to play Quidditch?"

The twinkle came back to Dumbledore's eye as he smiled at Harry. "I imagine that your schedule will be a bit tighter than in previous years, but I see no reason why you wouldn't be able to keep playing."

The old Headmaster felt a small part of the worry fall away as the boy grinned up at him.


	2. Part II

**Disclaimer: **Much as I wish it weren't true, I still don't own Harry Potter. (This plot, though, is all mine.)

_**Preludes for Memnon  
XIX**_

_Watch long enough, and you will see the leaf  
Fall from the bough. Without a sound it falls:  
And soundless meets the grass… And so you have  
A bare bough, and a dead leaf in the grass.  
Something has come and gone. And that is all._

_But what were all the tumults in this action?  
What wars of atoms in the twig, what ruins,  
Fiery and disastrous, in the leaf?  
Timeless the tumult was, but gave no sign.  
Only, the leaf fell, and the bough is bare._

_This is the world: there is no more than this.  
The unseen and disastrous prelude, shaking  
The trivial act from the terrific action.  
Speak: and the ghosts of change, past and to come,  
Throng the brief word. The maelstrom has us all._

_**-Conrad Aiken**_

The Atrocity of Sunsets

**Part II**

The boy sat in the train compartment on the way to Hogwarts with Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville. He was filling in for Harry on the train ride, just as he had always done. In general, Harry had too many conflicting emotions coming back after each summer—as well as too few answers prepared for his friends. Thus, a replacement was always needed to assuage their concerns.

After gentle prodding from Hermione and Ginny, and extremely unsubtle queries from Ron, he'd already told his friends what he was able to tell about his summer.

"_Yeah, Dumbledore reckoned that I needed to know how to protect myself, so he took me from the muggles early to train…"_

This, of course, produced very curious expressions on the faces of the group (mixed with a tiny bit of easily-overcome jealousy with Ron), and begat a flurry of questions from Hermione—which resulted in him promising to teach what he could to them and the D.A.

'Though when we'll have time to do this, I have no idea,' he thought to himself.

He continued chatting with his friends, and the trip was made as it usually was—complete with the standard visit from Malfoy and his cronies. They had apparently not yet learned their lesson about accosting him, but they were chased off quickly enough when they were threatened by the entirety of the compartment. Even Neville did not hesitate in standing up to them; fighting in the Department of Mysteries and then receiving his own wand had really bolstered his confidence.

So, all in all, the train ride was a success. Everyone got safely back to Hogwarts without incident, and he'd managed to reassure the Weasleys, Hermione, and Neville that he was alright without lying—well, without _really_ lying. As they stepped off the train and loaded into a thestral-drawn carriage to Hogwarts, he only wondered how everyone was always so easily convinced that he was Harry—he didn't resemble him at all.

* * *

It was with a mask of bored indifference that Snape observed the sorting ceremony. In reality, he was closely watching which first years were put where—and making his own preliminary mental estimations of their character—and devoting the rest of his attention to keeping watch over Potter and his cohorts.

The Sorting Hat had once again infused its song with warnings of dire times for Hogwarts should its students not fully unite. Snape, of course, knew that the Hat had precedence in making these kinds of warnings—it had actually done so in his own seventh year. And, of course, he had reacted to its urgings the same way Potter and his friends had the year previously—that is, he totally disregarded them. With all the benefits of hind-sight, he hoped that his slytherins would heed the advice of the tatty hat.

Soon enough, however, he was drawn from his musings as the last student (Yeganegi, Alexandra) was sorted into Ravenclaw. As he began serving himself, Snape glanced briefly over at Potter. He was about to turn away when he noticed that the comfortable, if not slightly bored, look on the boy's face was swiftly turning to one of bemusement and confusion. Potter subtly tried to look around him—as if attempting to assess his situation—before relaxing and beginning to load food on his plate.

Curious… Snape had never seen the boy act in this way. The Potions Master could not think of an explanation for this behavior. He came to the conclusion that it was probably nothing, and went back to his meal. Even so, he filed it away for future consideration.

* * *

After the welcoming feast, Harry drowsily walked the familiar path to Gryffindor Tower with the rest of his house-mates. To all outward appearances, he was content, happy to be back at Hogwarts. Like the rest of the boys in his dormitory, he wasted no time in changing into his pajamas and crawling into his four-poster. He drew his curtains closed tightly around his, and if anyone heard the soft incantation of a silencing charm, they gave no indication.

If anyone had thought to look in on him hours later, just past midnight, they might have been surprised at what they'd have found.

Instead of the content—if somewhat subdued—teenager of a few hours before, Harry's figure now appeared smaller, almost drawn in on himself. He was curled tightly in a fetal position, as if unaware of the large bed he lay on, and his fist was stuffed in his mouth in an attempt to stifle his sobs, as if unaware of the silencing charms surrounding him.

However, he was not completely muffled. If one were inside the confines of the four-poster, they could have easily heard some of the boy's words.

"Sorry… I'm sorry…didn't mean to… my fault… freak…"

If anyone had thought to look.

* * *

Harry yawned as he sat down to breakfast with Ron and Hermione the following morning. It was strange, he felt completely exhausted and unrested, but he knew for a fact that he'd gotten lots of sleep the previous night. He tried to shrug off his fatigue as he started in on his kippers.

Halfway through breakfast, the trio received their schedules. Looking his over, Harry was relieved to note that he'd be starting out the year with Charms, and wouldn't have to worry about NEWT Potions with Snape until Thursday afternoon. He was about to set down his schedule and resume eating when Hermione grabbed his attention.

"Harry," she said, "what's that note on the back?"

Curiously, he turned it over, and saw that there indeed was a piece of parchment spell-o-taped to the back. He removed it and saw that it was a note from Dumbledore. After reading it over, and checking to make sure nobody was listening in on the conversation, he quietly answered her.

"It's from Professor Dumbledore. He says that I'm to resume my—extra lessons—next week. I'm to work with Snape every Tuesday night, and on Sunday nights, I'll either be working with Dumbledore, McGonagall, or Lupin."

Ron whistled under his breath. "And on top of that, you'll have Quidditch, the D.A., and schoolwork. I don't envy you, mate."

Hermione looked sympathetic to Harry's schedule, but couldn't hide the fact that she was excited at the prospect of extra lessons. "Oh, but imagine all the things he'll learn!" she exclaimed. "I don't suppose…"

Harry chuckled lightly at his friend. "Don't worry, Hermione, I won't mind teaching you some of what I learn."

She smiled brightly before glancing down at her watch. "Oh! We'd better get going, we don't want to be late for Charms our first day back!"

Harry took a couple more bites of food before stuffing his schedule and Dumbledore's note into his bag and setting of to charms with his friends.

* * *

The first week of classes had passed by without incident—though Harry had heard the same "this is a NEWT level course, so be prepared for lots of work" speech several times over—and much sooner than he would have liked, he found himself in Snape's dungeon bracing himself for another occlumency lesson.

Though many people who only had the image of him as the boy-who-lived would be surprised to find this out, Harry tended to be a pretty timid person. He put himself forward when the situation warranted it, of course, but most of the time, he really just wanted to fade into the background. While he tried to distance himself as much as possible from the Dursleys, one lesson ingrained into him living at Privet Drive was to avoid attention—he reflected that it wasn't really a problem, as he mostly recalled being ignored by them, but usually when his aunt, uncle, or cousin paid attention to him, it wasn't a good thing. In Harry's mind, he'd made great strides in opening up to people—Ron and Hermione being case-in-point—but being around Snape, especially having lessons one-on-one with Snape, never failed to put him on edge.

He would never admit it to anyone (least of all the snarky git himself), but Snape made him nervous. What was worse was that he didn't even know why he always got so nervous, because it was nothing conscious. Most of the time, he placed that mystery in the same area as his constant black-outs. It just happened.

Harry was drawn out of his musings as Snape entered the dungeon in a flurry of black robes.

"I'm glad to see that you're on time, Potter. We will continue where we left off at our last lesson. I hope you've been practicing; if you haven't, I'll know, and I _won't be pleased_."

"I have been practicing, sir," he said tensely.

"We'll see," Snape sneered. "_Legilimens!"

* * *

_

Fortunately, the beginning of the year also heralded the beginning of a new Quidditch season, one in which Gryffindor's star seeker was able to play again. Katie Bell had been appointed Gryffindor captain, as she was the team's senior member. The second Saturday back at Hogwarts, the remaining team members made their way to the Quidditch Pitch in order to hold try-outs for new members.

When a good number of hopefuls had made their way onto the pitch, Katie clapped her hands to gain everybody's attention.

"Alright," she said, "here's how try-outs are going to work this year! We are looking primarily for two chasers; however, as we usually find ourselves…er… lacking one or more regular team members each year, we will also be holding try-outs for a reserve keeper, chaser, beater, and seeker."

At this announcement, the black-haired seeker found himself on the end of amused glances from Katie, Ron, and Ginny (who was here to try out for a chaser position). Knowing his propensity for getting into trouble, he only shrugged. It was never _his_ fault.

After Katie gave instructions to all the prospective players, the try-outs began in earnest. As the priority was finding two new first-string chasers, those trying out for the position took to the air first, each one attempting to get the Quaffle past the hoops that Ron was guarding. Next, Katie and two other constantly changing chasers tested out those trying for reserve keeper, while potential beaters were put through their paces doing drills on the other side of the pitch.

For most of the try-outs, the black-haired seeker stayed on the ground, carefully watching the proceedings and making mental notes of each of each prospective player. Finally, after the keepers, beaters, and chasers were finished, those wishing to become reserve seeker were sent over to Harry, and he took a more active role.

In reminiscence of his first training session with Oliver Wood, each of the three seekers was first sent into the air to chase after golf balls. After this, all were put above the pitch at the same time, to chase an actual golden snitch (albeit one that was charmed to be slightly easier to spot). Lastly, Harry instructed them to follow him around the pitch and do their best to mimic his maneuvers—Hermione would be recording them with omnioculars, which would be reviewed later.

Everyone was watching the seekers being put through their paces, but their attention was not exclusively on those hoping to make the team. As Gryffindor's star seeker took to the air, it was easy to see his expression change into one of euphoria- an expression only ever seen when he was flying. To Harry's closest friends, he was almost like a different person when he was on his broom.

* * *

After much deliberation and discussion, the new Gryffindor team members and reserve players were duly chosen—and then announced in the midst of a raucous party.

It was no surprise to anyone that Ginny Weasley was chosen as the first new chaser; her stint as seeker last year had clearly shown her skill on a broom, and from her try-out, it seemed her skills would be even better put to use as a chaser. The second new chaser was a tall and broad Fourth Year named Tom Collins, and the spot of reserve chaser had gone to a Third Year boy known as 'Sharma' (his first name, Jonathan, was never used by his peers).

Victoria Frobisher, a now Third Year who had tried out for the keeper position the previous year, gained a spot as the reserve keeper. An energetic Fourth Year by the name of Devin McClanahan—whose Irish accent was tame most of the time, but invariably seemed to intensify in his excitement—was given the position of reserve beater. Finally, the reserve seeker spot was given to a slight Second Year girl by the name of Adele Houghton.

All members of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team—new and old, main and reserve—were constantly being toasted to by the rest of the Tower; most of the students raised their butterbeer bottles in these toasts, but a fair number of Sixth and Seventh Years were having a grand time with the Firewhiskey Seamus had managed to smuggle in. The party lasted well into the night, and everyone was thoroughly enjoying themselves (even Hermione, who generally tried to maintain a scowl of disapproval aimed towards the more exuberant party-goers).

At around half-past midnight, Professor McGonagall marched up to Gryffindor Tower to put an end to the festivities. She stood in the portrait hole, unnoticed for a minute or two, as she observed the festivities with a slightly softer expression than one might have expected. The happiness of everyone, Harry Potter notably included, was very easy to see. McGonagall had lately been noticing strange mood swings that Gryffindor's star seeker had been having, where he ranged from hostility to obstinance to an unsettling impassivity. Never, though, had the Deputy Headmistress seen Potter so happy and seemingly carefree. The sight was almost enough to persuade her to let the celebration go on uninterrupted. However, she had responsibilities that she had to keep in mind, and she couldn't let them go to the wayside simply on the account of one student.

Professor McGonagall hardened her expression and frowned—she must be wearing the proper disciplinary expression, after all.

"What is going on here?" she demanded.

All noise ceased.

"You will go up to your dormitories at once. I'm sure you've all had quite enough celebrating for tonight," she declared, eyeing the empty Firewhiskey bottle in Dean Thomas's hand. "And twenty points from Gryffindor."

Several students groaned, but everyone finally began heading up to their dormitories. McGonagall left the common room shaking her head.

* * *

Exiting a dungeon classroom after a particularly trying Double Potions session, a certain black-haired, Sixth Year Gryffindor was very irritated. Where the hell did Snape get off being so… Snape-like? It was all insufferable condescension along with never-ending insults about Harry, and James Potter, and Gryffindors in general.

The boy scoffed at the thought of the huge nosed git. Even without the insults and the condescension, his ugly face was distracting enough, what with a nose that looked like an elbow affixed to the middle of his head, and hair that had probably never been free of the grease that smothered it.

Everyone was always telling him to ignore that antagonism that the greasy bastard was constantly throwing at him, but he was fed up with it, and what if he didn't particularly feel like ignoring it?

'_Hell and damnation!'_ mused the Gryffindor, _'And a large supply of heavy-duty shampoo.'_

And that was how inspiration struck. _Snivelus_ was long overdue a good prank, and this mischief-maker knew just what to do.

"Hey, Ron," he said casually, but with a bit of a smirk on his face, "I just had a great idea…"

* * *

Though Ron was a bit wary of the plan—if it was out of fear of Snape's retribution, or Hermione's disapproval, it was impossible to tell—he eventually agreed to help out, and the prank was swiftly set in motion.

This was how, a few days later, most of the school was watching curiously as a non-descript owl (rented from the Hogsmeade Post Office) dropped a fair sized, plainly wrapped package in front of the resident Potions Master. No sooner had the parcel landed with a _thunk_ on the table did the plain brown paper fall away, revealing the contents to all the professors surrounding him, along with a good number of students who were sitting closer to the staff table.

Sitting boldly in front of Snape was an economy-sized bottle of shampoo, stamped with huge, bold lettering: **_Pamela Pretty's Wildflower Hair Potion: Heavy Duty Shampoo for Stubbornly Oily Hair._** (Just below that, in only a slightly smaller font was the apparent slogan, _"Wash away that dirt and grime, and your new style will be sublime!"_) Cheekily spell-o-taped to the bottle was a note that simply said,_ "Use Me!"_

Snape, apparently trying to keep his dignity in tact, carefully and deliberately lowered his fork before leaving the Great Hall—though many observant students noticed his hands were clenched at his sides and his eyes were twitching.

When everyone was sure the Potions Master was safely out of hearing range, the Hall burst into boisterous laughter, and order was not restored for several minutes (with much sputtering and pointing at the shampoo bottle, still sitting in front of Snape's plate, in the mean time). Naturally, once everyone had once again settled down enough to be able to speak in full sentences, there was much speculation about who it was that had just pulled a fast one on Snape. It seemed that nobody knew who it was, and if anyone had any information, they weren't talking.

However, Hermione had suspicions as to the culprits the moment that she glanced over at Harry and Ron and saw their matching innocent, bewildered expressions—quite reminiscent of Fred and George, and painfully obvious in meaning to anyone that had spent any prolonged amount of time with the Twin Terrors.

Right as Hermione was about to open her mouth in order to give them the third degree, the pair glanced at their watches and announced that they had better be getting to class. They were already walking through the doors of the Great Hall before the bushy-haired prefect regained her bearings and raced after them. Much to her annoyance, she only was able to catch up to them just before the bell rang, and was not given the chance to scold them before class began.

She took notes dutifully through the period, just as always, but also sent a good number of irritated glances at her two best friends. When the bell signaling the end of the period finally rang, Hermione was all set to pounce on her friends, but she was denied the opportunity once again—they were able to slip away once again. They managed to evade her for the rest of the day.

* * *

Unfortunately for them, the guilty party wasn't able to escape the wrath of Hermione for long; the next morning, Ron had found himself cornered and being a stern talking-to ("You are a prefect, Ronald Weasley, so start living up to the responsibility and _act_ like it!"). Immediately afterward, the prefect went off in search of her other friend for the same reason, but when she found him at least, she was surprised enough to forget her mission altogether.

The black-haired Gryffindor was immersed in a large tome, stacks of other books piled around him, and he couldn't have looked more content.

"Er… Harry?"

He looked up and smiled at her, "Hey, Hermione."

She took a seat after he had cleared a spot on the table in a clear invitation to join him.

"What are you doing?" she asked, curiously.

After quickly looking around to make sure no-one was listening, he leaned forward, and spoke in a hushed voice. "You know how I'm taking extra lessons? Well, McGonagall is teaching me the animagus transformation, and I've gotten to the point where I know my form. Before I go any further, she's assigned me to do research on my animal—it's natural characteristics and habits, along with myths and traditions associated with it—so I can better understand why I have the form I do."

Hermione nodded in understanding, and took a closer look at the books, noticing that while many had broad titles like _Traditional Animal Symbolism of the Far East_, the more specific titles all had to do with birds.

"It's really interesting, actually," he continued earnestly, "the natural characteristics are pretty much straightforward, but the myths are so varied that they seem contradictory, but oftentimes just reinforce the personality of the animal.

"For instance," he said, after flipping through the pages of the book he was currently reading, "ravens are known in myths around the world as shape-shifters, and are known for their wit, creativity, and insight—which they use in legends for the good of others, and as devious tricksters both. They're also associated with solitude, though some cultures tell of them as a benevolent guide and they are symbolic of gratitude and affection."

"That is rather paradoxical," she agreed. Smiling at her friend's excitement, she continued, "I don't know that I've ever seen you this enthusiastic about research of any kind."

"Don't get too used to it," he said teasingly, "I'm almost done, and then you'll have your bibliophobic best friend back."

True to his words, he scribbled the last of his notes five minutes later and then set about putting all of the books away. Hermione helped him, and soon the pair was heading back up to Gryffindor Tower. It wasn't until much later, just as she was crawling into bed, that she realized that she had been successfully distracted from rebuking her black-haired friend.

"Too right, 'devious tricksters,'" she muttered before pulling closed the curtains of her four-poster.

* * *

At the close of the next day, Snape was to be found stiffly removing strands of memory and placing them in a pensieve in preparation for the impending occlumency lesson with Potter. The fact that the Potions Master still had to suffer the indignity of tutoring the boy still grated on his ever-taught nerves, never mind the fact that Potter actually was showing promise this time around. It was the principle of the thing; everyone else catered to the brat's every whim and weakness, and Snape bristled at the notion that he was expected to do the same.

Sneer firmly in place, Snape recalled a conversation he witnessed between McGonagall, Albus, and Lupin earlier that week. The werewolf—who had traveled to the castle for the express purpose of tutoring Harry—anxiously expressed his concerns over the boy's emotional well-being and the fact that he hadn't seemed to mourn his godfather's passing. While his two colleagues appeared concerned and anxious over this admission, the Potions Master simply felt indifferent; he certainly didn't want to witness any histrionics on behalf of the mutt, and told himself that it wasn't his responsibility to deal with any problems might have outside of schoolwork and occlumency.

And in any case, there was no doubt that Potter was surrounded by sympathetic ears, ready and willing to listen to his every complaint.

Shaking the conversation from his mind, Snape quickly finished removing his more guarded memories. After doing so, he settled himself behind his desk, and let he eyes rest firmly on the clock. At exactly nine o' clock, there was a firm knock on the door.

"Enter," he commanded.

The door opened and Potter—stone-faced, as he always appeared to Snape these days—entered. The Potions Master motioned the door closed, and stared narrowly at the boy waiting at attention.

"I trust you don't need instructions on what to do now," he said.

"No, sir."

"Very well, then. _Legilimens!"_

To the Slytherin Head's slight dissatisfaction, he was not able to gain access to the Golden Boy's mind for the entirety of the lesson. It was not an unforeseen occurrence; for the past few lessons, he'd only broken the boy's barrier once per night, and even then only with the most subtle of intrusions when the brat was clearly losing energy. Even so, he was irked at the Gryffindor's success—it would no doubt swell his head to an even more unbearable size.

At the end of two hours, Snape was forced to let Potter leave with the warning that this did not mean he had mastered occlumency, and that he had better keep up practicing, for there would be harder tests coming his way.

Irritably, the Potions Master placed his memories back in his head and stormed off to his quarters.

* * *

Following his best friends, a certain sixth year Gryffindor shuffled moodily into the Potions Dungeon. He had not had the best of days; though he had no nightmares last night, he still felt exhausted—and had also managed to oversleep. As a consequence, he completely missed breakfast, and found himself losing his house ten house points from McGonagall as he skidded into Transfiguration five minutes late. While he managed to keep himself awake through all of his classes, he was frequently called out by his Professors for not paying attention. The fact that he had a dull throbbing headache persistently located in the area of his left temple didn't help matters.

Gracelessly sliding into a seat and dropping his books, he ignored the slightly concerned looks of Ron and Hermione. Harry thought one of them might have been about to comment—again—but luckily, they were prevented from doing so when Snape swept into the classroom and, as was his custom, demanded the class's attention.

If he thought Potions would be any better than the rest of his day, he was sorely mistaken. Harry couldn't force himself to focus any more than he could in the rest of his classes, and it was clear that Snape was taking vindictive pleasure in punishing him for every lapse in attention. By the end of the lesson, he was on his last nerve.

This being the case, it is no surprise that as he was putting away his potions ingredients, his thoughts were solely focused on the fact that, in less than a minute's time, the bell would ring and this horrible excuse for a day would be over.

As such, he was not prepared when Snape sent a nearly silent _Legilimens_ in his direction.

Instantly, his mind was flooded with his memories—he saw himself approaching the Fat Lady; himself tossing and turning in bed; and, quite incomprehensibly, himself looking back and forth between his arm and a razor.

Suddenly, Snape was out of his mind, and Harry found himself once again in the Potions classroom. The Professor was sneering malevolently at him, and when the bell rang a few seconds later, he was profoundly grateful for the chance to escape. However, this gratitude was short-lived, as Snape caught him before he could reach the door.

"Mr. Potter," he said coldly, "you will remain after class."

Ron and Hermione sent him questioning looks, but they were forced to leave by the force of the Potion Master's glare.

When the last student was gone, Snape swiftly motioned the door shut and locked it with his wand. He stared at Harry a moment before ordering him to sit.

"I would like an explanation, Mr. Potter."

For reasons he couldn't quite understand—reasons that went beyond failure at Occlumency—Harry felt very scared.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

I'm so sorry for the delay in this chapter. I wanted to get certain things fine-tuned and worked out, and didn't feel I could write this well enough without having all the elements right. Also, as is not uncommon with me, I ran into a small bit of writer's block. Finally, as I'm sure you know, HBP came out, so I needed a bit of time to digest that and decide how it was going to impact the fic (if it was even going to). In the end, I decided that I would basically keep to my original outline.

Thank you SO much to everyone who has reviewed! Feedback is awesome. It made me very happy, and I'm very glad you all seem to like it so far.

_Molly Morrison_- I was so excited to see your review (I love your stories!). As to your question… how can I possibly answer that without giving something away?

_Tanydwr_- Hehe, don't worry, there is no slash planned for this fic.


	3. Part III

**Disclaimer:** All I own are my own ideas—and my much loved copies of Jo Rowling's books.

* * *

_**Scrub**_

_If I grow bitterly,  
Like a gnarled and stunted tree,  
Bearing harshly of my youth  
Puckered fruit that sears the mouth;  
If I make of my drawn boughs  
An inhospitable house,  
Out of which I never pry  
Towards the water or the sky,  
Under which I stand and hide  
And hear the day go by outside;  
It is that a wind too strong  
Bent my back when I was young,  
It is that I fear the rain  
Lest it blister me again._

_** -Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

**_

The Atrocity of Sunsets

**Part III**

"I would like an explanation, Mr. Potter."

Snape stared coldly at the boy in front of him, awaiting a response. When no response came, the Professor took it upon himself to continue speaking.

"Can you tell me why, Mr. Potter, is it that only yesterday evening you were capable of defending your mind for the entirety of the lesson, yet only just now, you failed miserably at maintaining any semblance of a defense?"

Swiftly, the expressions on Potter's face changed from nervous to blank, and finally to a carefully neutral, guarded mask. As the boy's posture also shifted—though seemingly without moving at all—Snape narrowed his eyes. What kind of game was the Gryffindor trying to play now?

"I will not ask you again, Potter. Even your abysmal talents in occlumency couldn't have warranted such a large discrepancy in this brief a time. Now, explain yourself."

The boy quirked an eyebrow and gaze impassively at him, with an aristocratic bearing that even Draco Malfoy would be hard-pressed to imitate.

"It's of no use telling _him_ off, you know," the boy casually informed him, "it isn't as though he's the one that's been attending the lessons."

It was only several years' experience as a spy that enabled Snape to maintain a neutral expression instead of externally reacting to the child before him. Not only had his posture changed, but the timbre of his voiced had changed slightly, and there was a marked difference in his manner of speaking. Though the boy's expression was still inscrutable, Snape had a distinct feeling that the sixth year was very much amused by his reaction.

Finally regaining his bearing, Snape spoke once more. "May I inquire as to whom I have been teaching, then?"

"That would be Potter," he replied, smirking.

"And I would assume that you are not 'Potter'?" The Potions Master asked, deciding to just play along for now.

The boy stared at Snape incredulously. "Me? Saint Potter, Hogwarts' Resident Hero? Hardly. Do I look like a Gryffindor to you?"

Snape resisted the urge to respond that that was exactly what he looked like, and instead responded, "Well, if you are indeed neither Potter or… Harry, then I believe I have not yet made your acquaintance."

"Daniel, of Slytherin House, at your service," he introduced himself, with an admittedly Slytherin smirk on his face. "There is no need to introduce yourself, Professor Snape."

From his experience as a member of—and then the Head of—the house known for its cunning and skills at manipulation, the Potion Master's natural reaction was suspicion and skepticism. However, being a skilled liar had given him the ability to recognize when others were trying to deceive him, and it was this ability which prevented Snape from throwing the boy out of his classroom on the spot. Whatever was going on here, the boy seemed to sincerely believe what he was saying.

"Why is it, Po—" he paused, and then tried again, "Can you tell me why, _Daniel_, you've revealed yourself to me? Are you not capable of passing as Mr. Potter?"

"As for why I 'revealed myself' to you—well, at least one of us was going to be revealed eventually, and you were the one closest to the truth. A Slytherin myself, I am the one who could best deal with you. However," he said, "if you think I was forced to 'come out,' if you will, you are very sorely mistaken. I am a Slytherin; as one yourself, I'm sure you can understand that I'm always acting according to my own self-interest."

"Forgive me if this seems obtuse," Snape started, still trying to digest what he was being told, "but how does exposing a major weakness qualify as acting in self-interest?"

"I'm sure a man of your intelligence and situation knows the value of survival," Daniel responded, a touch impatiently. "Loathe as I am to admit it, _my_ survival depends on Harry's, and he is hardly in a state where he will be able to survive unassisted for much longer."

Snape thought about this for a few moments before responding. "What makes you think that I am trustworthy, or even in a position to be able to help him?"

"You're a spy for the Order," Daniel said flatly. "If Harry doesn't survive—physically or mentally—Voldemort wins by default, and you lose everything. And you're not such a fool to take that risk."

The Professor bristled at the implied insult.

"Also," the boy continued, ignoring Snape's reaction, "you obviously have a good, if basic, understanding of the human psyche. We don't know of anyone else we can go to, who has that qualification. Most wizards try to fix everything with magic, but Harry's problem cannot be solved with a wand."

After he finished speaking, Snape stared hard at the black-haired boy sitting in front of him. 'Daniel' obviously had given this much thought, and his arguments were logical. However, did the Slytherin Head even completely believe this wasn't just some elaborate hoax? And if Potter did actually have such serious problems, would the Professor be able to help with only rudimentary skills in psychology? Whatever the situation, more thinking and research would be essential before making a decision.

"I'd like some time to think over what you have told me. Is this a problem, or did you want an answer immediately?"

"Of course not," Daniel replied, unconcerned. "We wouldn't want you to agree not knowing what you're getting into, after all."

The Slytherin in a Gryffindor's body rose from his seat, and headed toward the door.

"Good day, Professor."

* * *

Harry was sitting on his bed. As he looked around his dorm bemusedly, he resigned himself to the fact that his black-outs didn't seem to be fading away this year, as they usually did.

Upon brief examination, it was apparent that he was the only one in the dorm at the moment. His books were dumped next to him on the bed, and it looked like the sun was just setting—

It took a moment for this to sink in, but a second later, his eyes flashed back over to the window, and then desperately looked down at his wrist to see what time it was. Upon seeing the time, his eyes widened and he wasted no time in hopping off his bed and dragging out his Quidditch gear. He haphazardly threw on the uniform, snatched up his firebolt, and raced out the door.

Luckily, he did not crash into any people on the way down to the Quidditch Pitch, and he managed to make fairly good time. However, when he finally made it to practice, he was still more than ten minutes late.

"Harry!" Katie Bell shouted from about 20 feet in the air, "You're late! Where have you been?"

"Sorry," he replied breathlessly, "I—I guess I just lost track of time."

"Well, don't let it happen again," she replied. "Now, get in the air and practice drills. After twenty minutes, you can take out the snitch."

Harry wasted no time and immediately took to the air. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been late to a practice—at least he seemed to have eaten during his black-out, as he wasn't hungry at all.

On the other side of the field, Kirke and Sloper were practicing executing their Bludger Backbeats, while Katie, Ginny, and Collins were concentrating on perfecting the Hawkshead Attacking Formation. The three reserve players were running speed and precision drills. Harry vaguely took all of this in, but he was primarily focusing on his own maneuvering and precision. It was true that he was a talented Seeker, but he could only improve himself with practice, and there was always room for improvement.

It was a cause of some consternation that Harry could not remember the bulk of time he spent training—and most of the games in which he played—but most of the time, he assumed that he was just concentrating so hard that the time flew by without his noticing. The muscle memory was there, so he was obviously there for the practices. As for the games, that was obviously adrenaline; many of his teammates had remarked about past games being 'like a blur,' so as far as Harry was concerned, it was nothing to worry about.

Soon, he was finished with drills and was able to let the snitch out. Before he knew it, the sun was down, and practice was over.

* * *

Severus Snape urgently scanned an out-of-the-way bookshelf in one of the far corners of the library. The section he was looking through was a small one—not many at Hogwarts actually had a use for the texts addressing psychology—but hopefully, he would be able to find something of use.

After fifteen minutes, he had managed to find three books that looked promising, and proceeded to make his way back down to his quarters as quickly as possible (he had done his best to ignore the suspicious, bemused look on Madam Pince's face). Once back in his rooms, Snape sat himself in his most comfortable chair and opened the first book.

Unfortunately the first text—as well as the second—was vague, generalized, and basically unhelpful. There were outlines and definitions of things like _neuroses_ and _psychoses_, explanations of chemical imbalances and the like, but nothing that really seemed to shed light on Potter's apparent situation. However, he was able to find much pertinent information in his last selection, _Mind Over Magic: Implications of Psychology in the Wizarding World._

The book was a considerable size and contained information on a number of issues—the power of suggestion, the 'nature versus nurture' debate, personality types—but it was when he was scanning the section concerned with specific disorders that Snape found what he was looking for:

_**Dissociative Identity Disorder**_

_Dissociative Identity Disorder, or Multiple Personality Disorder as it is more commonly known, is a mental defense mechanism generally first constructed in early childhood, most often in the wake of multiple severe traumatic occurrences. In the wake of traumatic events, the mind will dissociate and create 'alters' in order to keep itself functioning. This disorder is much less common among wizards than muggles, presumably due to the importance that traditional pure-blood families place upon heirs. Most cases of Dissociative Identity Disorder that have occurred within the Wizarding community were documented as occurring with those of a muggle-raised background._

_Aside from alters or 'split personalities,' there are a number of signs associated with the disorder. Among these symptoms are mood swings, depression, sleep disorders, panic attacks, anxiety, compulsions, and psychotic-like symptoms. Because these signs are also associated with various other anxiety, depression, or panic disorders, those with DID are often misdiagnosed._

_In addition to this, there has long been controversy in the muggle world over the credibility of the condition, with various arguments on either side. Most disbelievers claim that patients create false memories while in a hypnotic state. In the Magical community, the disorder has been recognized as completely legitimate since the case of Dissilia Ketteridge (an American witch diagnosed in 1972). It had been noted before the Ketteridge case that different 'personalities' seemed to have various differing talents, and even varying magical abilities. This case was able to conclusively prove the existence of DID based on an extreme example of the above observation: Dissilia, with her two alters, had three animagus forms._

Severus looked away from the text, processing this information. If indeed Potter did have this disorder (and it looked as if it was a major possibility), then he really did need help. As a teacher and Order member, Snape knew that it was his responsibility to help. The only reservation he had was whether he could help the Gryffindor by himself; surely the process would go much smoother if others were also helping Potter adjust—people that the boy actually trusted and respected.

It was now certain that the Potions Master would be involved. But, before he made any concrete plans, he would need to talk with the boy again.

* * *

Harry sighed contentedly as he put his finishing touches on an essay about Text Translation charms for Flitwick. It was his last assignment he needed to finish for the next day, and he was relieved to have it all done (though he hadn't been very eager when Hermione had been needling him into working earlier in the day). As he sat back in his chair, he looked at Ron, who had only just succumbed to the force of Hermione's glares and began his own work.

"Let's see, what do I have to do for Potions?" the red-head muttered to himself, rummaging through his bag. He pulled out a very rumpled piece of parchment, smoothed it out, and squinted at it. "Explain the differences between fluxweed and pennyroyal, and describe their common uses in potions."

Ron contemplated the scrap of parchment for a moment, before setting a fresh roll of parchment before him and readying his quill.

"So, Hermione," he began, "what do you know about the differences between fluxweed and—"

"For _goodness sake_, Ron," she exclaimed, "why can't you ever take your school work seriously?"

"What?" he asked defensively, "I'm only asking because you're better at taking notes than I am."

"Well, maybe if you paid more attention in class, you would have better notes!"

Harry, who had been watching the scene amusedly, suddenly felt someone nudging his shoulder. He turned his head and found himself looking straight at Ginny, who had managed to sit down on the arm of the chair he was in without his noticing. Smirking, she nodded her head towards the still bickering pair. He grinned back in response.

"So," she said quietly, leaning towards him, "I'm betting they'll be found in a broom closet together by the end of the year."

Still smiling, he glanced quickly at his two friends, and then back at Ginny. "A lot can happen in a year," he agreed.

Harry didn't know if he imagined it, but he thought that Ginny's smile got just a little wider at this statement.

"Yeah," she agreed, "and a lot stays the same."

She ruffled his hair, smiled at him, and walked away.

Harry couldn't describe the strange feeling in his stomach, but couldn't bring himself to be bothered by it.

* * *

While Harry's schedule was already strenuous, it seemed that many others felt they had plenty of free time, as he had been questioned about the reinstatement of the DA since the second Monday of term. Thus it was that, using the coins designed by Hermione the previous year, he signaled that the first meeting was to take place on the coming Saturday. When Saturday evening finally rolled around, Harry found himself in the now familiar Room of Requirement, facing a slightly smaller DA.

"Er, alright," he began, with the same kind of nervousness he had felt when he first stood in front of the group the previous year, "I think it's safe to say we're all here to get better at defending ourselves.

"The DA isn't going to have the same priorities as last year—unlike Umbridge, Professor Zokaine does actually do his best to teach us defense. So, um, this year I figured we'd focus a little more on trying to learn how to defend ourselves from Death Eaters, and how to prepare in case of an attack. Eventually, I'll be teaching you some auror-grade spells and techniques I've been learning."

There was an excited murmuring at the last statement.

"However," he said, "this meeting is primarily going to be a review of what we covered last year, so everybody get a partner, and begin going over _Expelliarmus_."

Though there was some grumbling (most vocally from Zacharias Smith), everyone quickly complied and got to work reviewing the spell. The meeting progressed smoothly, and by nine o' clock, they had also covered _Stupefy_, _Impedimenta_, _Protego_, _Reducto_, and briefly practiced conjuring Patroni.

The meeting ended about five minutes before curfew, allowing everyone just enough time to make their way back to their respective common rooms. As everyone else filed out of the Room of Requirement, Harry remained behind to quickly straighten up. Hermione and Ron offered to stay behind as well, but he waved them off; he'd be along in a few minutes anyway.

Harry banished the pillows—which had been strategically placed to cushion falls while they were practicing stunners—to one side of the room, and neatly stacked the targets on which they had been practicing casting_ Reducto_ next to them. He checked the room to make sure there was nothing else he was missing, and then left for Gryffindor Tower.

* * *

Snape was somewhat at a loss as he contemplated how he was to go about discussing Potter's apparent condition with him without alerting anyone else, or bringing about suspicion. It would be incredibly out of character, he knew, to ask the boy to come to his office without apparent reason; he could assign an arbitrary detention, but no doubt McGonagall or Albus would question his reasons for this as well. After some contemplation, Snape was resigned to simply asking the Gryffindor to stay behind in class again, but when he was walking through a seventh-floor corridor, he saw his chance to execute a better plan.

While walking vaguely in the direction of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, Snape very clearly heard the sound of footsteps. The Potions Master was ready to take house points away from the offender, who was guilty of being out after curfew (if only just barely), when the perpetrator came into sight, and he changed his plan of action entirely.

The boy seemed not to have spotted him yet, so Snape stopped and cleared his throat. A moment later, the student had frozen in his tracks, and his green eyes focused in on Snape.

"Mr. Potter," Snape started, "may I inquire as to what you are doing out of your dormitory after hours?"

"Er… that is," he said nervously, "I had to check out a book from the library."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Where, then, is the book, Mr. Potter? Also, I was under the impression that the library closed at eight o' clock, unless Madam Pince has suddenly changed her policies?"

"Well, uh…"

"As I thought," interrupted Snape. "Congratulations, Potter, you've just earned detention with me tomorrow night."

"Uh, sir? I have a lesson with Professor McGonagall tomorrow night," the Gryffindor said anxiously.

"Very well," Snape sneered at him, "you can serve your detention tomorrow at noon."

"Yes, sir," the boy sighed in resignation.

After dismissing Potter to go back to Gryffindor Tower, the Potions Master headed back to his own quarters in order to prepare for the next day's conversation.

* * *

At precisely noon the next day, Snape was to be found sitting at the desk in his classroom, liberally marking a stack of fourth-year essays with red ink. He'd just finished marking a prominent _P_ at the top of one student's essay when there was a brisk knock on the door.

"Enter," he commanded.

He heard the click of the latch and the faint creak of the door and, without looking up from his marking, said, "Close the door behind you and sit down."

A moment after he heard the click of the latch for the second time, he finally looked up. As he expected, it was Potter. With a pair of unspoken spells, he placed a powerful locking charm on the door, along with a silencing charm.

Looking the boy over, the Potions Master noted that he was holding himself with the same patrician bearing that 'Daniel' had employed on Thursday. The Professor was grateful that he wouldn't have to waste time in figuring how to draw the 'alter' out.

"I have given much thought to your proposal," Snape began without preamble.

"Have you reached a decision, then?" the boy asked lazily.

"I have," he confirmed, "and I consent to endeavor to help… Harry. However, I have one stipulation."

Daniel simply raised an eyebrow.

"There will be others involved in Harry's therapy."

"Absolutely not," immediately responded the alter.

Unfazed, Snape continued. "Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall will have a part in the healing process as well, along with Lupin."

"I refuse to let three more people know of our secret," Daniel forcefully stated, staring icily at the Potions Master.

"Do you honestly believe the three in question will not eventually discover what you are hiding?" the Professor sneered. "Whether I tell them or not, they will know; they are already concerned and suspicious in regards to Mr. Potter's recent behavior. If they are involved from they outset, Harry will have a wider and more… sympathetic… foundation of support."

Though Snape was still being glared at, he could tell that the alter was at least considering his words. After about half a minute, the expression on the boy's face shifted, and the Potion's Master found himself on the end of a measuring, thoughtful stare. Unlike the stare leveled at him by Daniel, Snape was easily able to detect a degree of affability in whomever it was that had just emerged.

When the boy next spoke, it was in a considerably warmer tone. "You're sure that informing the other three professors would not be harmful to Harry?"

"I am positive," Snape responded easily, taking great pride in the fact that he hadn't faltered at the emergence of this new alter. "At present, they have much better relationships with him than I have, and he quite obviously trusts them more. And there is no question that none of them would do anything to harm him."

"Are you absolutely certain that they will not tell anyone else of our secret?" the boy pressed.

"_Yes."_

The black-haired boy finally removed his stare from the Potion's Master and, with furrowed brow, looked to be in serious debate with himself (which, Snape reminded himself, was actually a significant possibility). Finally, the boy slowly exhaled and looked back up at him with an easy smile on his face.

"We agree," he said.

Snape simply nodded in satisfaction, somewhat at a loss for what to say.

Suddenly, the boy brought a hand to his forehead and laughed lightly. "I've just realized I'd forgotten to introduce myself in the midst of the discussion! I apologize; it was very rude of me.

"My name is Eric Samuels," he said, smiling sheepishly at the professor.

"A pleasure," Snape said tersely.

What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Some random odds and ends: almost all the names for original, minor characters are borrowed from people I know in real life. However, if any fans of the musical _Rent_ are reading this, then I'm sure they noticed I borrowed the name of one the main characters, and used it for one of the new members of the Quidditch team.

Dissilia is an alteration of the Latin word 'Dissilio' which means "to leap apart, break asunder."

Zokaine is a transliteration from Hebrew, and it literally means old, or elder.

I am a huge nerd; if there was really such a book as _Mind Over Magic: Implications of Psychology in the Wizarding World_, I would read it in a heartbeat.

I'll be posting review responses in my blog (of which there is a handy link on profile) within 24 hours.

Also, my apologies for not having updated in a couple months; it's amazing how much time midterms, lit papers, and ecology lab reports take up.


	4. Part IV

**Disclaimer:** Though it would help pay for my tuition if I owned the rights to Harry Potter, alas, I am but a poor college student and all I own are my copies of the books (and, as I'm sure you've guessed by now, lots of volumes of poetry).

* * *

_**so many selves(so many fiends and gods**_

_so many selves(so many fiends and gods  
each greedier than every)is a man  
(so easily one in another hides;  
yet man can,being all,escape from none)_

_so huge a tumult is the simplest wish:  
so pitiless a massacre the hope  
most innocent(so deep's the mind of flesh  
and so awake what waking calls sleep)_

_so never is most lonely man alone  
(his briefest breathing lives some planet's year,  
his longest life's a heartbeat of some sun;  
his least unmotion roams the youngest star)_

_--how should a fool that calls him "I" presume  
to comprehend not numerable whom?_

_**-e.e. cummings**_

The Atrocity of Sunsets  
**Part IV**

Some time later, in the Room of Requirement, Eric looked upon his canvas with a sigh. This latest painting of his looked like it would be a proud accomplishment; the lines were smooth and graceful, and the myriad of colors on the canvas added to this grace with their constant transition, but at the same time suggested a muted, controlled chaos. Yes, when it was finished, Eric was going to be satisfied, but at the current time, his sojourn to what Dobby called 'The Come-And-Go Room' was leaving him completely unfulfilled.

After he had agreed with Snape's proposal, they had talked a bit more about making arrangements— though they didn't really get far, as the Potion's Master was adamant in speaking to Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Lupin before making any concrete plans—and then, reminding him snidely that this was, in fact, a detention, Eric was put to work scrubbing cauldrons for two-and a half hours. When the detention was finally over, he had made his escape and headed directly to the Room of Requirement, in order to see if his anxiety could be quelled by working on his latest piece.

Unfortunately, it was now apparent that Eric's hope was in vain. He'd been steadfastly working on this painting for forty-five minutes, and he still felt apprehensive in the aftermath of the meeting with Snape. Upon their return to Hogwarts, everyone agreed that Harry needed helping. However, it had taken quite a long time to agree on whom was reliable and intelligent enough to help them, and they had finally made their decision last week. But with Snape's suggestion… even Daniel, who had the most trust in the Head of Slytherin, had taken a bit of convincing to open up to it. And now, it was up to Eric to tell everyone else about the plan.

Eric himself was cautiously optimistic about what would come from informing three more people of their situation. Snape had stated Harry trusted them more, and not only was this true, but the three people that had been suggested were almost universally trusted by the others. Overall, Eric felt it was a good step; they would be good support, and sympathetic… and there would be less of a risk of others stumbling across their secret with four Order members guarding it. And though he very much trusted his own thoughts on the matter, being as he was the most knowledgeable about Harry's life, and how all the others came to be here, he really was not looking forward to sharing these thoughts with everyone else.

And there was no doubt that Daniel, the git, was probably going to be smirking the whole time.

As his painting and supplies would be unmoved the next time he visited the Room of Requirement to paint, Eric didn't bother setting aside his easel. However, he did hurriedly slam lids on containers of paint he'd been using, resulting in a small splatter of blue paint on his shirt that Eric didn't notice and that Harry would later assume came from his detention.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore stared at Severus Snape with a carefully placed neutral expression on his face. When the volatile Potions Master strode into his office, with a very determined air about him, the Headmaster had not expected him to calmly request a meeting with himself, Minerva, and Remus Lupin. 

"May I ask, Severus, what the subject of this meeting will be?"

There was very little change in Severus' expression, except for a very slight augmentation of his omnipresent sneer. Over the years, Albus had learned to interpret this as a sign of nervousness in the spy. Though he made sure to make no sign of it to the man before him—Severus never liked how easily the Headmaster could read him—Albus was growing concerned.

After a few moments, the Potions Master finally replied, "I believe it would be best if I withheld the subject until we discuss it. It will keep you from worrying over it, and it will be easier if I only have to make the explanation once."

"Very well," Albus replied after a beat. "I will arrange the meeting for tomorrow at eleven o' clock."

Severus thanked him and left the office, leaving Albus to his thoughts. The very fact that the Slytherin professor avoided disclosing the theme of the matter in order to keep him from worrying set off warning bells in the Headmaster's mind. The insistence upon Remus Lupin's presence also puzzled him; Severus was usually openly antagonistic towards the werewolf, working with him only when he was forced to by Albus' command. On the whole, the spy's request was mystifying and worrying.

Fawkes gave a concerned warble from his perch, and Albus rubbed his eyes wearily.

"I don't know, my old friend. We shall have to wait and see."

* * *

_SMASH!_

Really, Eric knew that some of the others—and Tristan in particular—would definitely not be happy with the new development. But even as he knew that, he for some reason hadn't actually thought over what the volatile alter's reaction would be. Luckily, Eric had waited until the rest of Gryffindor had gone to sleep to apprise the others of the situation, and so was able to quickly secret the other down to the Room of Requirement without undo notice.

That was where they were now. Eric watched as Tristan mercilessly destroyed all the fragile objects that appeared in the room as he walked in. Many of the objects looked like the instruments Dumbledore kept in his office; Eric didn't think this was a coincidence. Tristan had a very short list of people he wasn't angry with, and the Headmaster most assuredly wasn't on it.

It had been going on like this for at least twenty minutes. Tristan had started out with angry exclamations accompanying his rampage, shouts about "manipulative bastard Headmasters" and"sadistic interfering death eaters" among many others, but eventually he devolved into simply screaming in rage as he destroyed everything in his line of sight.

There was a last crash as Tristan forcefully threw a mirror against the wall, causing it to shatter violently. For the first time since he entered the room, he paused, staring at the broken glass as if mesmerized. After a few moments, he strode purposefully over to the broken mirror and picked up a shard, turning it in his hands.

Eric sadly looked on as Tristan, apparently feeling the need to turn his violence and frustration on himself, began making shallow cuts on his left forearm. Tristan was only allowed to do so for about two minutes, however, as Eric managed to put a stop to the cutting by forcing himself out. Immediately, he asked the room to take away all the destroyed objects, and then took out his wand to heal the cuts, using a spell he'd picked up from Madam Pomfrey during one of the instances where Harry was ensconced in the hospital wing.

The cuts healed quickly and left no scars, which Eric was grateful for. It would not be good if anyone saw strange scars on Harry's arm, least of all Harry himself.

That done, Eric wasted no time in returning to Gryffindor Tower; if he was lucky, they might be able to get in a good six hours of sleep tonight.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall wasn't quite sure what to expect when Albus had told her that Severus had requested a meeting with the two of them and, of all people, Remus Lupin. Perhaps it is Order business, she thought, that is too crucial to be shared with the entirety of the Order. But whatever she had expected, it was nowhere close to this. 

Evidently, Harry had approached the Potions Master to draft his help in dealing with a rather serious mental disorder.

"When Potter first approached me, I was skeptical. As you well know, there is no love lost between us, and I thought what he told me was some kind of prank—"

The Transfiguration professor frowned slightly at this. Despite her suspicion of Harry's involvement in the recent shampoo prank, he'd never really been much of a prankster. But of course that wouldn't stop Severus from suspecting the boy; he never had learned to differentiate Harry from his father.

In the back of her mind, Minerva knew that the only reason she was focusing on that thought was to distract and distance herself from the rest of what her colleague was saying.

"—but then I took it upon myself to do research of my own, to see if his claims of alternate personalities had any validity." He paused very briefly, and then continued on in an odd tone of voice. "Suffice to say, there is precedent. That, combined with the two… alters I met, give me reason to believe that Potter has Dissociative Identity Disorder."

"You're sure, Severus?" Albus asked, any hint of a twinkle gone from his eyes.

Minerva glanced at Remus, whom was sitting beside her. He seemed to be struck mute by what Severus had disclosed, and a breath away from breaking apart.

"As sure as is possible, at this point. Each alter had distinct mannerisms and ways of speaking, which I was able to notice in the brief time I spoke with them. Potter is not that good an actor."

"How long do you suppose he's…" Minerva trailed off, not quite sure how to finish her question.

Regardless, Severus knew what she was asking. "I do not know. From what I've been able to glean, however, it is not a recent development."

There was silence in the office as the occupants let this information sink in, as well as its implications.

"What can we do to help?" whispered Remus, eyes staring hard at a point on the Headmaster's desk.

"Assist me in Potter's healing process. Initially, I was the only person involved, but I convinced one of his alters that it would be beneficial if you three were involved as well."

"I believe I speak for all of us," Albus said solemnly, "when I say I will do all I can to help Harry."

Minerva nodded her agreement, but couldn't bring herself to respond in any other way. She was still in too deep a shock from the conversation. Harry Potter had some kind of mental disorder, which Severus had informed them at the outset of the meeting, apparently stemmed from deep-seated trauma. If she had missed this in one of her most conspicuous students, she wondered just how many similar cases she might have overlooked in others.

Regardless, the Transfiguration professor was determined to right this wrong and give all she could to help Harry recover.

* * *

Thoroughly shaken, Remus was only half-aware of his surroundings as he walked away from Dumbledore's office and out of Hogwarts. It took all his energy to keep his emotions at bay, so as to not break down before he reached the borders of the school so he could apparate back to Grimmauld Place. As it was, there seemed to be a heavy fog surrounding him, temporarily numbing him, but still filling him with a deep sense of shame and sadness. 

He felt the tingle of wards as passed out of the boundaries of the school, and immediately apparated into his bedroom.

As soon as he felt the hard wood under his feet, he let the fog in his mind dissipate, and he immediately sank onto his bed, holding his face in his hands.

How could something like that happen to Harry? How could he _let _something like that happen to Harry? He had failed Lily and James. He had failed Harry.

It made no difference to him at that moment that there was probably nothing he could have done to prevent Harry's situation, that he was never able to take Harry in when he was still a child because of ministry legislation forbidding a werewolf from raising children. Neither did it matter that apparently everyone had been fooled into thinking there was nothing wrong with the black-haired adolescent; the mistakes of others did not justify his own.

All that mattered was that he himself had not noticed anything amiss, and he hadn't taken action to prevent the trauma that apparently caused the disorder affecting Harry.

He let thoughts of sorrow and self-recrimination overtake him for a few minutes while his body shook with the weight of his emotions. Eventually, though, he began to collect himself, and reassembled a calm outward appearance. Remus was far from all right, and the same thoughts of shame raced under his constructed façade, but he would get through this. He would be strong for Harry, ensuring that he made it through whatever trials were to come in the healing process that Severus spoke of.

Remus knew that, despite his thoughts at the moment, he would survive this, as he seemed to keep on surviving his entire life. And he'd do his damnedest to ensure that Harry survived as well.

* * *

Oblivious to the distress of the four adults, Harry Potter slept peacefully through the night.

* * *

**Author Notes:**

I'm SO sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out—writers block is evil, and school work (especially poetry explications) sucked up the rest of my time... and even now, I'm not completely satisfied with it. I really will try to get the next chapter out much sooner.

I'm also sorry this chapter is so short, but really, all that I had planned for this chapter is included, so… shrugs

Thank you for all the reviews for the last chapter!


	5. Part V

**Warning:** From this point on, I'm going to be incorporating bits of HBP. I don't know if there's any HP fan out there who hasn't gotten around to reading it yet, but, spoiler warning, just in case.

**Author's Notes:** Yeah, I know it took me forever to get this chapter out. I really am very sorry, but I have no excuse to offer you. I'll try to get the next part out sooner.

...And apparently, is having issues with how I was trying to format the poem in this chapter, so I'll just have to make due. (Which kind of makes me sad, since I liked the original format of the poem.)

**Disclaimer:** Yeah… I really don't think anyone believes that I'm JK Rowling, or that I'm making any money off of Harry Potter. If you do believe that… well, did you know they removed the word 'gullible' from the dictionary?

How about some beat poetry to start us off?

* * *

_**36th Chorus**_

_No direction  
__No direction to go_

_Burroughs says it's a time-space  
__travel ship  
__Connected with mystiques  
__and mysteries  
__Of he claims transcendental  
__majesties,  
__Pulque green crabapples  
__of hypnotic dream  
__In hanging Ecuad vine.  
__Burroughs says, We have destiny,  
__Last of the Faustian Men._

_No direction in the void  
__Is the news from the void  
__In touch with the void  
__Everywhere void_

_No direction to go  
__(but)  
__(in) ward_

_Hm  
__(ripping of paper indicates  
__helplessness anyway) _

_**-Jack Kerouac**_

The Atrocity of Sunsets

**Part V**

_Oblivious to the distress of the four adults, Harry Potter slept peacefully through the night._

Or, at least, he slept peacefully for a couple hours. His peace was disrupted about a half an hour after midnight, when a sharp spike of pain shot through his scar; had he been awake and not in a deep sleep, Harry would have identified it as a surge of intense anger from Voldemort. Mere seconds after his scar started searing, he was pulled into REM—he dreamt he was flying and bludgers kept flying straight into his skull, no matter how hard he was trying to out maneuver them. Strangely enough, the pain (which got more intense with each successive bludger) seemed be coming from within his head; it felt like they were forcefully ramming into a stubborn wall actually built inside his brain.

It was when the hammering bludger managed to break this wall that Harry was pulled into the first vision of Voldemort that he'd had in months.

_The only figures he saw were Riddle himself and a figure prostrated at the megalomaniac's feet. They seemed to be standing in an opulent room, which looked like it was an office. Fire crackling in the grand fireplace on the opposite side of the room as the figures was the only light in the room, and the flickering light only served to make the scene more ominous, casting eerie shadows on the walls._

_The prostrate figure was shaking, and Voldemort was glaring down at it._

"_Let that be a lesson to you, as a small taste of how you will be punished if you let another of my possessions be destroyed."_

"_Y-yes, my Lord," the figure answered, in a voice Harry immediately recognized._

_Lucius Malfoy._

"_You are fortunate, Lucius. You have the chance to redeem yourself."_

"_Thank you, my Lord."_

"_Seek out two more of my less-secure possessions, and make sure they are indeed accounted for. I will very disappointed if I find that you have also let my ri—"_

At that moment, Harry woke with a start, gasping for breath, with a pair of hands shaking his shoulders.

"Harry! Harry, mate, are you alright?"

Still breathing quickly, Harry looked up to see a red-headed blur leaning over him. There were a few other blurry figures hovering nervously in the background. The red-headed blur backed away slightly when it was clear that Harry was awake.

"I'm fine, Ron," he said shakily.

"Are you sure? Your hands were clamped to your scar, and you were almost hyperventilating. Was it… was it You-Know-Who?"

Harry groped on the nightstand for his glasses, and slid them on. Ron looked worried and concerned, and very tired. The black-haired Gryffindor sat up, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"It's—I'm fine, Ron, really," he said, as steadily as he could. "Go back to sleep. I just… I need to go talk to Dumbledore."

Quickly managing to slip on a robe and a pair of shoes, Harry hastily grabbed the invisibility cloak and hurried from the dorm, leaving behind a very concerned best friend.

* * *

Harry raced through the corridors as quickly as he could, not bothering to be quiet. In a matter of minutes, he reached the gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's office, and started rattling off names of sweets. 

"Drooble's best blowing gum… fizzing whizbees…sherbert lemons…chocolate frogs…sugar quills…_come on!_"

The gargoyle refused to step aside. In a fit of desperation, gasped out the name of a candy he'd only ever heard Dean mention in the context of some joke. "Er… crunchy frog!"

To his immense surprise, the gargoyle actually moved aside at that. As he moved quickly up the moving staircase, Harry tried to avoid thinking about why Dumbledore was using 'crunchy frog' as the password to his office.

Soon enough, he reached the door Dumbledore's office, removed his invisibility cloak, and knocked urgently.

"Come in!" answered the Headmaster's voice.

He opened the door quickly and came in. McGonagall looked surprised at seeing him but Professor Dumbledore looked, as always, unruffled.

"What is the matter, my boy?"

Harry took a couple deep breaths before replying. "Sir… I just had a vision." He saw the Headmaster and McGonagall exchange a brief look, and hurried to speak again. "I think the only reason it got through was because he was really angry. My shields held up for a while, at least I think so—I was dreaming at the time, but I remember my occlumency shield trying to hold it back because I thought it was bludgers pounding against my head in the dream, but then they broke and then the vision started—"

"It's alright, Harry," the Headmaster assured him calmly, interrupting his nervous babbling. "We know you've been doing all you can to build up your occlumency shields. It's not your fault Voldemort managed to break through."

Still feeling ashamed that he couldn't keep Voldemort out, Harry tentatively nodded.

"Am I right in assuming that you feel there's important information in this vision?"

"Yes, sir. Well, at least I think so; I'm not completely sure, but it seemed important." He was aware that he was babbling again, so he just forced himself to get to the vision. "Voldemort—he seemed really angry about something. Lucius Malfoy was the only other person there, and I think he'd had Cruciatus cast on him; punishment for letting some possession of Voldemort's be destroyed. Then—then, he said he was sending him to look for other possessions, which he thought might not be secure. That's when Ron woke me up."

Dumbledore sat in silence for a few moments, looking contemplative. Harry glanced over at McGonagall, to find her staring at him, a strange expression on her face. Still anxious, he turned back to look at Dumbledore. Another moment and he finally spoke.

"Thank you for sharing this, Harry. This is indeed insightful. However," the Headmaster added, leaning forward and looking gravely at him, "I still would like you to keep developing your mental shields. Not all such visions are as… helpful as this one."

Harry was reminded of Sirius, and nodded ashamedly. Still, though he felt some kind of comforting whisper in the back of his mind.

Dumbledore gently dismissed him and told him to return to Gryffindor Tower. As he left the office, he heard McGonagall speaking in low, worried tones.

"It's simply not right, Albus. All these things shouldn't happen to—"

But then the door shut, effectively cutting off whatever his Transfiguration Professor was saying. Harry once again put on his invisibility cloak, and made his quiet way back to his dormitory.

* * *

By the time that Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower, Ron was back asleep. For the second time that night, he crawled into bed and drew the curtains of his four-poster closed. However, he was not to sleep peacefully for the rest of the night; the vision of Voldemort, uninformative as it was to him, left him unsettled. He tossed and turned all night, resulting in him waking up late, and barely in time to go to breakfast with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. 

Racing down the stairs, Harry stopped just before entering the common room proper to see that Ron and Hermione were once again bickering.

"I don't see why you still write to him," Ron said with an obstinate look on his face.

"And I don't see why that is any of your concern," retorted Hermione.

"Well, because he's not good enough for you, is he?"

Harry couldn't tell if Hermione was angry, bemused, or pleased. He had a feeling that she currently wasn't able to make the distinction, either.

She didn't say anything for a moment, but then she dryly responded: "Would you care to elaborate?"

Ginny, from her spot across the common room, spotted Harry and grinned at him. She waved him over, presumably inviting him to watch the carnage from a better vantage point. Cautiously, he descended the last two stairs and made his way over to Ginny.

The arguing pair made no notice of his entrance.

"I mean, you're too smart for him," stated an increasingly flustered Ron, "and too interesting, and bloody-minded, and—and, er…"

A bemused Hermione stared at Ron, whose ears were an impressive shade of red.

"Only Ron can manage to botch up a compliment that spectacularly," Ginny whispered in Harry's ear. For reasons he couldn't fathom, a chill went down his spine.

"Oh, er, I don't know about that," Harry shakily replied.

Hermione finally got around to responding to Ron. "I still think it's my right to decide whom I write to, but thanks for the compliment… I think…"

The pair was looking at each other very awkwardly. Ginny apparently felt it was time to interrupt, for the next moment, she loudly cleared her throat. Ron and Hermione spun around to look at her and Harry.

"So," Ginny said casually, "if that's settled, how about we go get breakfast?"

Everyone was quick to agree, and soon the four were off to the Great Hall. When they were about half-way there, Ron abruptly turned to Harry with a concerned look on his face.

"Harry, what was the vision you had last night? Are you alright? What did Dumbledore say?"

He was speaking in a hushed voice, so nobody passing by would overhear, but he was loud enough for Hermione and Ginny to hear. Harry sighed as the two witches glanced anxiously at him.

"Nothing. I'm fine, don't worry about it."

* * *

Despite being told all morning not to worry about Harry's vision, Ron and Hermione refused to stop asking questions or casting slightly worried looks at their best friend. By the time they got to Herbology, it was nearly unbearable. 

Not five minutes after the class started, Ron glanced worriedly one too many times. On the pretext of very carefully trimming the trio's reiki bonsai tree (whose leaves were used in certain varieties of healing potions), the black-haired Gryffindor leaned closer to the other two.

"Look, I know you are both worried, but there's really nothing to tell. It's not worth worrying over." The skeptical expressions on their faces elicited a sigh from the last member of the so-called 'Golden Trio.' "A vision got through, but no new information really came of it. Plus, there are some things Dumbledore insists on keeping secret."

The last sentence was technically true, though at the same time, it had nothing to do with Harry's vision the previous night.

However, the explanation seemed to satisfy Harry's friends, and the trio went back to trimming their bonsai. One member of the trio was slightly more content with completing the assignment than the others.

Really, there was nothing more relaxing than tending to a garden; for the moment, though, completing an assignment in a Herbology class was close enough.

* * *

By the time Sunday rolled around, Harry had managed to completely shake off the worried looks of his friends, and everything was back to normal—or as normal as his life ever was. 

Hermione managed to browbeat him and Ron into spending their time before lunch studying. Ron belatedly started on the transfigurations essay due the next morning while Hermione had seemed to be reading ahead in the potions text. Harry, who had, by some miracle, actually finished all of his assignments for his classes, read a book on advanced defense techniques that Lupin had recommended.

Study time didn't last long, however, and after lunch the trio headed outside. Of course, Hermione brought along some 'light reading,' but the two boys immediately grabbed their brooms and took to the air. Ginny joined them a short time later, and the three of them joyfully spent the entire afternoon racing each other and practicing Quidditch moves.

After dinner, Harry headed off to one of his extra lessons—tonight, with Professor Dumbledore. The Headmaster greeted him when he entered his office, bid him to have a seat, and then wasted no time in launching directly into the lesson.

"Now, Harry," he began, "previously we were working on methods of defensive transfiguration in duels, but I thought I'd shift the focus of these lessons for the time being. While knowing how to defend yourself is of the utmost importance, it is just as important to know and understand your enemy."

Harry watched as Dumbledore rose from his seat and walked over to a cabinet beside the door, from which he removed a familiar Pensieve. The Headmaster placed it on the desk in front of Harry.

"So," continued Dumbledore from where he left off, "from this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundations of fact and spellwork and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets if wildest guesswork about Voldemort's past."

Remembering his past experiences with Pensieves, Harry looked warily at the stone basin, but said nothing. He briefly looked up at the Headmaster, whom looked as if he wanted to say something. When he saw Harry's glance, however, he simply smiled at him and moved to stand behind him.

"Tonight, we will be going on a trip down Bob Ogden's memory lane," he informed Harry. Seeing his student's inquisitive glance, he elaborated, "Bob Ogden was employed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He died some time ago, but not before I had tracked him down and persuaded him to confide these recollections to me. We are about to accompany him on a visit he made in the course of his duties. If you will stand, Harry…"

Dumbledore easily pulled the stopper out of a crystal bottle and tipped its silvery contents into the Pensieve.

"After you," he said, gesturing toward the bowl.(1)

* * *

Harry awoke the next morning in his four-poster. For a few moments, he simply lay on his side, staring at his red bed-curtains and remembering what he had seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve the night before. 

It had been a bit disturbing. All the Gaunts seemed to have something fundamentally wrong with them, even Merope, in her own cringing and servile way.

Well, at least that had answered the question as to where Voldemort got his insane and sadistic side from.

Pushing the thoughts away, Harry forced himself to get up and ready for the day. When he had showered, dressed, and otherwise made himself presentable, he went down to the common room, where he met up with Hermione. Ron came running the stairs a couple minutes later, and the trio made their way to the Great Hall.

Breakfast was largely unremarkable. Ron gorged on food, and Hermione tutted at him. At one point, Harry inadvertently caught the eye of Ginny, who was sitting further down the table with a few girls from her year. She smiled widely at him, and he quickly looked away.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Hermione had asked him then, "You look a bit flushed."

Harry assured her that he was fine.

As they were about to leave the Great Hall, a tawny owl flew over to Harry and landed on his shoulder. As soon as he removed the note it was carrying, the owl took off again. Curious, he opened the note.

_**Harry,**_

_**I have decided that it is prudent to allot one more night**_

_**each week for your training. In addition to your current**_

_**schedule, please report to the Room of Requirement at**_

_**8 o' clock on Thursday.**_

_**Professor Dumbledore**_

At his friends' questioning looks, Harry whispered, "Note from Dumbledore. I'll tell you later."

They nodded their acquiescence, and the three made their way to their first class of the day.

* * *

It was Wednesday, and Ginny Weasley was watching one Harry Potter very closely. Technically, she was supposed to be practicing Flash-Bang Spells with the rest of the DA, but she was already satisfied that she could perform it, and Harry-watching seemed much more important at the moment, anyway. 

Ginny had told Hermione that she'd "given up" on Harry, but that wasn't true, not really. It was more correct to say that Ginny had given up on Harry spontaneously announcing that he had feelings for her and grandly sweeping her off her feet in front of all of Hogwarts, like in one of the muggle pixie-tales.

First, she knew now that Harry was much too private of a person to ever go for that public of a display. Perhaps, if he was feeling especially daring, he might show how he felt in front of Gryffindor House. But that was definitely a long way off as well, if it was ever going to happen at all.

Secondly, Ginny had finally realized that Harry didn't know her all that well, and had only started seeing her as someone other than 'Ron's little sister' sometime late last year.

As a way to remedy this second problem, she'd taken to spending more time with Harry. Her brother and Hermione were usually there as well, and Harry seemed to be slowly opening up to her, while she learned more about his own personality. She'd even flirted with him a bit and the way he reacted seemed favorably.

So Ginny Weasley hadn't totally given up on the idea of dating Harry, but for now she was moving very slowly. And she was watching him. Because, as much as she'd learned about him since Hogwarts restarted, Harry still didn't completely make sense to her.

She'd started noticing in her second year, when she was mostly over being star-struck and was no longer being distracted by an evil diary, that there were things about the black-haired Gryffindor that just didn't seem to add up. It was nothing she could really put her finger on—everything could be explained away. If he was completely open and smiling one minute, and completely withdrawn the next, well, lots of people had mood swings. When he lashed out so much last year, and Ginny never remembered seeing him with so short a fuse, she rationalized that he was still dealing with what happened in the Third Task and (like any other boy she knew) refused to talk about or deal with his feelings in any productive way. That he absolutely never talked about his childhood, and avoided talk, even passing mentions, about his family was sad, but understandable; she'd never personally met the Dursleys, but she'd seen them glaring balefully at Harry when they picked him at King's Cross. And she'd heard about the bars placed on his bedroom window from Fred, George, and Ron.

There were lots of other little things she noticed, things that were easily explainable, and that should not have really bothered her at all—except that they did. And, having watched and overheard snippets of conversation between Ron and Hermione, she knew had the same sense of vague worry about their friend. Perhaps they worried even more, as they had been closer to him for a longer time.

So, Ginny was watching Harry. And until she could figure out why she felt an unexplainable apprehension for him, she would continue watching.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

The "crunchy frog" candy is taken from the actual _Crunchy Frog Sketch_ as written and performed by Monty Python. (Coincidentally, the sketch also make mention of another nasty candy—cockroach clusters. Methinks that Jo is a Monty Python fan…)

(1)HBP, pg 197-199 (slightly altered)


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